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Blodfa, once upon a time.
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We
spent last week back home in Wales where (amongst other things) we celebrated
Bigsister’s 80th birthday and Bigbrother and Sisterinlaw’s Diamond
Wedding Anniversary. Middlesister, the
niece and great-niece#1 were also there for a few days. They all stayed in The Plough Inn Rhosemaen,
where we had an excellent celebratory afternoon tea.
On the
fourth Sunday of the month there is a service in St Paul’s Manordeilo.
This is
the church Dad and his parents and grandparents attended. He and Granma were in the choir and Uncle
Charlie did readings as a boy. I remember, when I was a small child, Granma walking up to Sunday Evensong wearing her little brown hat and cotton gloves, looking for all the world like Miss Marple (the Joan Hickson version).
Mum was a
Roman Catholic so before they could marry (in 1941) Dad had to sign a document
saying any children would be brought up in the faith. He was a man of his word transporting Mum and
us to mass every Sunday, whether we wanted to go or not.
Recently I
realised that I’d only ever been inside St Paul’s for funerals; the last one
being Dad’s. I quite and quietly regret
that I’ve never been to a church service with him.
The
parish is much reduced so that there is only a service on the fourth Sunday of
the month.
As I went
in I was greeted by Mair the parish secretary who has known our family all her
life. As well as leading the service she
also played the organ.
She
introduced me to the rest of the small, mainly female, octogenarian
congregation.
“Jack
Boyd Blodfa’s daughter.”
They all
remembered him as a lovely man.
Gwyneth
lives in Station House where he was born.
One lady said “I was in Manordeilo WI with your mother; she was a jolly woman.”
Just
before Morning Prayers began another cheerfully plumped herself down in the pew in
front of me, turned around and asked
It was originally
broadcast on 3rd December 2012.
Although it will probably be repeated on Dave or Challenge long after I'm gone ...
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